10. Kennedy
“All right, everyone, gather ‘round,”I call out, my voice competing with the cacophony of giggles and chatter.
The classroom echoes with the sound of my clapping hands, a futile attempt to corral the attention of the unruly toddlers in the final moments of class.
Tiny bodies bounce and twirl, their tiny ballet slippers executing clumsy pirouettes and wobbly arabesques. Each one a whirlwind of movement, their enthusiasm infectious as they revel in the freedom of movement to Bach.
I weave through the colorful sea of miniature chairs and scattered toys to turn down the music.
My role has morphed from dance instructor to daycare manager. Most of their parents work, and I hate the idea of shooing these little dancers out the door with nowhere to go.
So, I do what I can to provide a safe haven—a place where their imaginations can soar and their spirits can thrive. With juice boxes and oatmeal cookies donated by a local bakery, I try to make their afternoons a fun, happy place that they’ll always cherish.
The same way mine was.
When I pitched the idea to the owner, her exact words were, “Do whatever you like. Anything you want.”
I should’ve been flattered, if she hadn’t looked oddly terrified when she said it.
Now that I have enough money to pay off Jimmy Luciano’s stupid debt, I’m done with that bastard forever. I’ve quit my other jobs and can finally pursue my passion: dance.
Or rather, pursue my love of dance vicariously through a group of precocious four- to six-year-olds.
Sure, it’s the lowest-paying gig in Chicago, and the tips are just gum wrappers and hand-drawn doodles, but it’s worth it.
While three squares of ramen a day might sustain my body, but this job feeds my soul.
Again, I clap. “Come on, it’s circle time,” I coax, gesturing toward the carpeted area at the front of the room.
Amidst the chaos, little Lily is engrossed in a book, oblivious to my attempts to corral the group. I gently place a hand on her shoulder, offering a reassuring smile. “It’s time to join us,” I say softly.
She holds up the book, and it’s one of my favorites. Angelina Ballerina.
“How about I read this to the group?” I ask.
“She can’t talk,” one of the children calls out, and I already know that Lily doesn’t speak. Not since her mother passed away.
Her father warned me about how withdrawn she’s been, and it strikes a chord, reminding me of my own struggles after losing my mother.
But like me, Lily loves to dance.
Gently, I stroke her hair. “That’s okay,” I reassure her softly. “That’s what’s wonderful about dance. You never need words to express yourself, right?”
Lily’s big green eyes meet mine, and when she nods with a shy smile, it’s all I need to take her hand and lead her to the group.
As the kids finally settle into place, I take a deep breath and hold up a book. “Can anyone tell me what Angelina’s wearing?” I ask.
A chorus of excited voices fills the air as tiny hands shoot up eagerly. “Me! Me! Me!” they exclaim, each child vying for a chance to answer.
I nod encouragingly, pointing to little Emily. “Yes, Emily?”
Emily beams proudly, her face lighting up with excitement. “A tutu!” she exclaims, giggling as she fluffs her own tutu.
“That’s right! And what else?” I ask with a smile.
One little girl squeals as she hops to her feet. “Zo!”
Huh?
I whip around to where she’s pointing, Enzo’s sudden appearance at the door throwing me for a loop.
Despite the fact that he has a black eye and a small gash across his lip—an area I suddenly want to nibble and kiss—he’s still gorgeous. Hair mussed to perfection. Jaw carved from stone. Eyes blazing a path down my body.
The man is a god. A living, breathing, brooding god.
Which is unnerving, considering I don’t have on a shred of makeup, my hair’s a tangled mess, and the dress I’m wearing is a size too small and relentlessly determined to shove my breasts to my neck.
When I offered the kids snacks of peanut butter and jelly crackers, I never imagined my other outfit—a nicely fitting blush leotard and skirt—would be smeared like a napkin.
This dress—one I unearthed from the wardrobe room—was left here when the dance studio was in its prime and a troupe performed A Midsummer Night’s Dream.
It’s elegant, but one of the shoulder straps was completely shredded from the bodice, probably during a particularly challenging scene when Titania seems to float effortlessly, barely supported by her partner.
And the color? A billowy shade of unforgiving white.
It reveals absolutely everything, from the outline of my navel to my now embarrassingly pert nipples. The girls couldn’t care less, and the look is common for dance, but as his golden eyes trace a path down my body, I can’t help but hold my breath.
Licking my dry lips, I mouth, “What are you doing here?”
Before he can answer, the little girls rush all around him, their eyes wide with delight as they swarm.
I would’ve half expected him to ask if they were housebroken and worry that they might pee on his expensive shoes. But Enzo surprises me, smiling and greeting them as if they’re all long-lost friends.
Then he returns his gaze to me. “I didn’t mean to interrupt.”
The girls start tugging him by the hands, and patting the floor for him to sit. Which, Enzo Ares D’Angelo, the mafia god of war, actually does.
Without missing a beat, he glances at the book in my hands, points and says, “I see toe shoes.”
* * *
After two more books,the girls do what little girls do in the presence of an attentive adult: They show off.
I put on Taylor Swift’s latest song and beam with pride as they all strut their stuff to the beat.
Enzo steps behind me, his breath hot against my ear as he murmurs, “What are they doing?”
I ignore the heat rising up my neck and steady my breath. “The Chasse. It’s supposed to be a gliding step where one foot chases the other.”
Now, his lips graze my temple. “Is the chasse supposed to look like a herd of ponies in tutus galloping about?”
“Absolutely.”
Then, his voice lowers to a smoking-hot growl. “We need to talk. Privately.”
I bite my bottom lip as vivid pornographic images of us flash through my thoughts. I’m pretty sure if the man read the dictionary in that tone, he’d have half the women in Chicago dropping to their knees for him.
Even me.
I cross my arms, covering the goosebumps scattering up them, and redirect his attention to the girls clambering for his attention. “They’re doing this for you, you know. Showing off.”
His finger draws a soft line from my neck down my spine. “Is that why you’re wearing this? To get my attention?”
“No,” I snap aloud. So loud that all the girls stop and look up at us. “Perhaps you should go,” I suggest. “We can talk later.”
“We can talk now.” Brash as all day, Enzo pulls out a wad of cash and fans it. “Twenty bucks to every girl who lines up in sixty seconds to go play with Mrs. Weston,” he declares.
The girls squeal with excitement, forming a neat row. Enzo tosses the wad out the door, and twenty-dollar bills flutter like confetti.
“What are you doing?” I ask, puzzled.
“Giving us privacy,” he replies. “Play with them,” he orders to Mrs. Weston across the hall as if he owns the place.
And, for all I know, he does because nervously, she nods. Her pasted-on smile is so wide I’m genuinely worried she might be drunk.
Before he closes the door, with the smallest semblance of authority, I yell after the girls, “Only take one each.”
Okay, that sounded weird, right?
Enzo shuts the door behind him and turns the lock, the sound echoing in the small room, making my heart race. His presence fills the space, and it feels suffocatingly small.
And when he takes a step closer and gazes down at me like that—like a man escaping a year in the desert, welcomed by a scotch over ice—I can’t breathe.
We stare at each other for a long minute, as invisible, unspoken words swirl all around us.
Then, with a heavy sigh, his face falls as he says whatever he’s come here to say. “I came to say goodbye.”